


Sidekicks

by EASchechter



Series: On his Brother-in-Law's Secret Service. [18]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EASchechter/pseuds/EASchechter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade's been watching the Holmes brothers deduce for years. Now it's his turn.</p><p>(Written for the AO3 Auction.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flubber2kool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flubber2kool/gifts).



It had been a long day, and Greg Lestrade wasn't looking forward to the long night ahead. Mycroft had had another screaming nightmare last night, another one that had left him pacing the floors, silent and sweating. He had been unable to get back to sleep afterward. Consequently, Greg had been up since the wee hours. He yawned and tried to hide it as he walked towards the Tube station -- he'd been tired enough this morning that he'd judged himself unsafe to drive. The townhouse wasn't a long walk from the Tube station, and he'd pick up something for dinner on the way...

"Detective-Inspector Lestrade?"

Greg turned at the familiar voice, and smiled in surprise. "Well, that's a shock. Douglas, how are you?"

"Doing well," Douglas answered. He frowned slightly as he came over and shook Greg's hand. "But I have to say, you don't look well. Are you all right?"

"Didn't sleep much last night," Greg admitted. "Been running on coffee all day. How are Helena and... Emily, was it?"

"Emma," Douglas corrected, falling in next to Greg as he started walking again. "And she's doing fine. She still wants to be a Slayer when she grows up, though."

"Lucy's said the same thing. Hope she grows out of that," Greg said, and yawned again. Then he realized that this was more than a chance meeting. Douglas, he remembered, lived on the other side of London, near the airport. He frowned and looked at Douglas. "Martin asked you to keep an eye on us while he and the family were in France, didn't he?"

Douglas grinned. "Actually, it was Olivia. She was a bit worried over the pair of you, since she's been the one with her dad during the day. So, since I've managed to restrain myself this long, how _is_ the mister? I missed seeing you both at the wedding--"

"My wasn't up to it. He's still... well, it's still bad. About the only time I get him out of the house is for doctor appointments. He'll be out of the cast next week."

Douglas nodded. "Good. Greg, you look done in. My car is parked around the corner. Let me run you home."

"You're taking this 'keep an eye on us' seriously, aren't you?" Greg said with a laugh. "Sure. As long as we can stop on the way. I need to pick up dinner for My and Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Just Sherlock? Where's the rest of the set?" Douglas asked as they turned the corner. He gestured towards his car, opening the passenger door for Greg. Greg waited until Douglas got in and started the car before answering.

"Had you heard that Jim's grandfather passed away?" he asked.

Douglas glanced at Greg. "No, I hadn't."

"He and John are in Dublin for the funeral and to take care of things. They've been there since Thursday last. Martin almost canceled their trip over it, since John's been trading off with Liv in coming over to stay with Mycroft while I was at work. But Sherlock offered to stay here instead."

"That's unexpectedly... empathetic of him," Douglas said after a moment.

"He has his moments," Greg agreed. He tipped his head back and listened to the traffic noise for a moment, then took a deep breath. "There's good Indian near the house. Want to stay?"

"No, thank you. Helena is expecting me for dinner. She sends her love, by the way."

"Does she?" Greg sat up. "But I've only met her the once."

"Running for your life forms a bond, don't you think?" Douglas said, his voice dry. Greg snorted.

"Suppose you're right."

Douglas let Greg out in front of the restaurant, and circled the block several times until Greg came back out, carrying a fragrant bag. He climbed into the car and nodded. "Thanks. Turn left up ahead, then two blocks down. Number seventeen."

"Right."

To Greg's surprise, there was a parking spot right in front of the townhouse. Douglas slipped the little sportscar into the space and put the car into park, letting the motor idle.

"You have my number, don't you?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so."

Douglas nodded, pulling out his mobile and handing it to Greg. "Here. Call yourself. You'll have my number, and I'll have yours. That way, if you need anything..." His voice petered off, and Greg noticed he was staring out the window at the door of the townhouse. He looked, and saw what Douglas had seen.

The door was open.

"My..." Greg was out of the car in a heartbeat, the bag falling from his hands, spilling korma and biryani across the street as he raced around the car and up to the door. Douglas met him there, one hand on his arm.

"Slow down, Detective-Inspector," he said softly. "They might still be in there."

Greg stopped, stared at Douglas for a moment, then nodded, his professional brain finally overriding his panic. "Right. Call 999."

"Already done." Douglas flashed a quick grin when Greg looked at him. "I've had them on speed dial ever since Martin started working with you lot. Break in, possible injured, possible assailants still on the premises."

"Good man," Greg murmured. He moved forward, pushing the door open gently, watching as the shattered lock fell to the ground. Instinct told him that no, there was no one here. But he needed to know for sure. "Stay here."

"Like hell!"

Greg turned and blinked in shock. "Where did you get that?" he demanded, seeing the tiny handgun almost hidden in Douglas' hand.

"From Martin, and indirectly, from General Fury. It's a SHIELD-approved weapon. And I know how to use it. Now go on!"

Greg nodded and slipped into the townhouse, feeling as if he were an intruder in his own home, and thanking whatever divine providence that might be paying attention that David and Lucy were with their mother this week.

The house tasted empty. Greg checked Mycroft's usual haunts first -- the first-floor study, the library, the second-floor computer room. Their bedroom. Each room had been systematically tossed, and the computers were missing. It seemed as if the attackers had been looking for something.

There was no sign of Mycroft or Sherlock. Greg heard the distant screaming of sirens, and turned to find Douglas standing in the doorway. The gun had vanished.

"Greg, you need to see this," he said softly. He turned and walked out, going back down the stairs to the ground floor. Greg followed him, and found himself being led into the kitchen. The first thing he saw was that the back door was open, too.

Then he saw the blood.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 It was Donovan who chased him out of the kitchen and out of the townhouse, telling him that he needed to let them work. So Greg ended up pacing the pavement in front of his own house, cursing softly.

"Did you see anything?" Douglas asked. "Anything that might help?"

Greg glared at him. "Not a damned thing. I'm married to a Holmes, Douglas. That doesn't make me one of them."

Douglas shrugged. "Doctor John picked up the knack of it. Martin did, too. I simply thought you might have learned something."

Greg swallowed, then frowned, thinking of all of the times that Mycroft had deduced something, then patiently explained what it was that he'd done, what he'd seen. It had made dealing with Sherlock that much easier, but Greg had never thought of actually trying it himself.

"I... I don't know if I can," he said, jamming his hands into his pockets.

"Can they?" Douglas nodded back towards the house. "Can they find Mycroft and Sherlock?"

"They're the best the Met has."

"That's not what I asked."

Greg swallowed again, then shook his head. "No," he said softly. "Not before... no."

"Then it's up to you, Detective-Inspector," Douglas said, his voice low and urgent. "I'll help you however I can. But you have to do this."

Greg stared at him for a long moment, then nodded and walked back into the house, brushing past Donovan on his way to the kitchen.

"Lestrade!" she called, following him. He stopped inside the kitchen door, ignoring her as she tried to order him out of the house. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and _looked_.

"Sherlock... it was Sherlock in here," he said after a moment.

"What?" Donovan demanded. "How could you possibly know that?"

"The bowl." Greg pointed to a bowl on the counter, half-filled with pink liquid. "Strawberry ice cream. That's mine. Mycroft can't eat it -- he comes up in hives. Sherlock loves the stuff, though. He was the one in the kitchen."

"Might still have been Mycroft," Douglas offered.

"It wasn't. You can't scoop ice cream with a broken arm," Greg said, turning around.

"His blood, then?" Donovan asked.

"No, I don't think so." Anderson appeared from the other side of the counter, holding up a large evidence bag. Inside was one of the expensive knives from the knifeblock that sat on the kitchen counter. "There's blood on this. If I had to guess, I'd say they came in through the back, surprised Sherlock. He used this to try and fight them off. We'll get word out to the A&E departments, see if anyone comes in with knife wounds."

"Good. Good thinking. Now, if Sherlock was here, where was Mycroft?" He pushed past Donovan, stopped, then headed back upstairs to Mycroft's study. Greg teased him, calling the small, windowless room Mycroft's cave, or his fortress of solitude. Then he'd had to explain the Superman reference. Regardless of what Greg thought of it, the small room had become his husband's refuge ever since they'd returned from Scotland. He pushed the door open and took a closer look, and knew that this was where Mycroft had been.

"Here. My was here." He walked inside, going to the tiny fireplace. The coals were still warm, and there was another bowl, overturned on the floor by Mycroft's upturned chair. Greg crouched down next to the bowl and sighed. "Chocolate."

"His favorite?" Donovan asked.

"His vice." Greg stood up. He looked around again, frowning. "They tossed the room after they had him."

"Why do you say that?" Douglas asked.

"He was in no shape to fight them. No reason to tear the room up like this unless they were looking for something or trying to put us off. And..." he stopped, not wanting to reveal to Donovan the six weapons hidden in the room. None of them had been disturbed. He closed his eyes and took a deep sniff. "There's something... have Anderson swab things in here. They used some kind of gas."

"You're turning into _him_ ," Donovan mumbled. "All right. Any ideas who?"

"Not yet." Greg turned around once more. "But I'm pretty sure that they weren't looking for anything. They didn't take anything. This was pure kidnapping. Possibly for information."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." Greg turned to look at Douglas, then nodded. "Yeah, the safe wasn't cracked. And My's rings were still on the dresser in our room. The drawer where he keeps his cufflinks wasn't open, either, and he's got a fortune in the things. They took the computers, but that's the obvious thing. Especially if they wanted information."

"Well done, Detective-Inspector," Douglas murmured. "Now what?"

Now what indeed? Greg frowned, looking down. What would Sherlock do? What would Mycroft do?

"Surveillance videos. I need to see the feed."

"I'll call ahead, get them ready for you," Donovan said.

"That's not the only feed," Greg said. He turned and headed out of the room, back downstairs, hearing Douglas behind him as he led the way into the cellar. He stopped outside what Mycroft had told him was once the wine cellar. Now, it was the server room. He keyed in the security code, then rested his palm on the plate glass and watched as the green light swept up and down over his hand.

"What's this?" Douglas asked.

"Not all of Mycroft's secrets were in his head," Greg answered as the door opened. "Not even he can keep track of everything. This... this mirrored what he had at the Hub. And I'm pretty sure that Liv doesn't even know about this."

"Should I wait out here?" Douglas asked.

Greg looked at him, then shook his head. "No. Martin trusts you. Which means Liv trusts you. And I'm going to need your help."

"Thank you, Greg." Douglas followed him into the small room, standing behind Greg as he sat down at the computer terminal and ran his index finger over the scanner. The screens lit up, and Greg typed in the commands that Mycroft had made him memorize.

"You have cameras in the house?" Douglas asked. He sounded scandalized.

"Only on the lower floors," Greg answered. He set the cameras to play, skimming through the feed. Sherlock arrived, Greg left. The brothers moved through the ground floor, Sherlock making lunch for the two of them.

"He can cook?" Douglas murmured.

"Pretty well, too."

After lunch, the two moved upstairs, and Greg changed the camera view to show the door to the study. The time stamp showed that an hour had passed before Sherlock came out once more. He reappeared shortly thereafter, carrying a bowl.

"Chocolate ice cream," Greg murmured. "Things should start happening." He keyed in another command, and another screen lit up with a image of the kitchen. Sherlock appeared, going to the freezer and taking out a carton of ice-cream. The bowl was half-full when Sherlock reacted to something out of camera range, dropping the spoon and grabbing a knife out of the block. There was a brief image of another figure, rushing at Sherlock and struggling with him. Then smoke filled the room and obscured the view.

"Same time stamp. Front door," Greg murmured, typing. A third screen lit, showing the entryway. The door exploded inwards and two men burst inside.

"Are those... military uniforms?" Douglas asked, leaning forward.

Greg's heart sunk. "Yes. Those are UNIT men."


	3. Chapter 3

 "I'm going to need copies of those."

Greg turned to see Donovan standing in the doorway. He nodded and turned back to the keyboard. A few moments later, he rose and handed a thumb drive to Donovan.

"Top secret, Sally," he said.

"I'll keep it under my hat." She looked around, nodding appreciatively. "Nice equipment. So, why would government men want Sherlock and Mycroft? Isn't Mycroft a government man?"

"Not anymore he isn't." Greg turned back and shut down the system, then headed for the door. "Right. UNIT men. I need to know what happened to UNIT after Sherlock and Liv shut them down."

"Liv would know--" Douglas started to say, but Greg cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.

"No. If I call her now, Martin will have them all on the first plane back. Same if I call John. So... who else can I call? Torchwood is gone."

"For government things, you probably want to talk to General Fury," Douglas said.

"Well, for some reason, I don't have his mobile." Greg snapped. Then he stopped. "But My did. His mobile. Sally, did anyone find My's mobile?"

"I'll check," she answered.

"You don't need Mycroft's mobile." Douglas took his own mobile out of his pocket and held it out. "Tony Stark."

It took Greg a moment to remember why that name was important. "Ironman? Why do you have Ironman's mobile number?"

"Because he gave it to me," Douglas answered. "I can call, if you want."

"Do it. You'll need to go upstairs. We get no signal down here."

Douglas nodded and headed for the stairs. Greg leaned against the wall and frowned, his mind racing. UNIT. Why would UNIT break into his house and kidnap his husband? Unless...

"Sally, didn't UNIT disband after that whole mess with the kids?" he asked. "Am I remembering right?"

"Thought so, yeah," Donovan answered. "Why?"

"Because I'm wondering if we're really dealing with UNIT."

"You think they were fake?"

Greg shook his head. "Not sure. They knew what they were doing. So they were trained. But if UNIT was disbanded..."

"Greg, you need to come up!"

Greg turned and sprinted up the stairs at the sound of Douglas' voice, hearing Sally clattering up the stairs behind him. "What? What is it?"

"I spoke to Tony. Who spoke to General Fury. He gave me a number for you to call. Said for you to give him two minutes, then call. He was going to call ahead." He handed Greg a slip of paper. Greg glanced at the number, then pulled out his own mobile and dialed it. A woman answered.

"Kate Stewart."

"Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade--"

"Yes, General Fury said to expect you. What can I do to help?"

"You can explain why UNIT soldiers broke into my house and kidnapped my husband and his brother."

Silence. Then she cleared her throat. "You have proof of this?"

"Yeah."

"Right. I think we'd best meet. Do you have a neutral place?"

"A neutral place?" Greg repeated. Douglas nodded, and Greg nodded in return. "Yes."

"Send a text with the address."

The line went dead, and Greg looked dumbly at the mobile for a moment. "Where?" he asked. "A neutral place, she said. Send her a text. Where am I going?"

#

"Thank you, Mrs. H," Douglas murmured.

"Of course, my dears," Mrs. Hudson answered. "I can't believe it. Greg, my dear, are you sure you're all right?"

"Fine," Greg answered automatically. Then he shook his head. "As fine as I can be."

"I'll bring up some tea," the older woman said. "And there's the bell."

"No tea, thanks. We'll be out of here as soon as we know what's going on."

"You let me know what's happening, you understand?"

Greg smiled. "Of course. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson left, and a moment later, they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A handsome older woman came in. She looked around and arched a silvering blonde eyebrow at them.

"Interesting place. Detective-Inspector Lestrade?"

"That's me," Greg answered. He held his hand out to the woman. "Miss Stewart?"

"Please, call me Kate. And this is?" She looked over at Douglas, who smiled and offered his hand.

"Douglas Richardson. I'm a friend."

She nodded and set her bag down on the table, taking out a small computer. "Show me why you think UNIT is behind this?" she asked. Greg nodded and took out another thumb drive, handing it to her. She plugged it into the computer, watching the feed without speaking. When the video ended, she sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Those are UNIT uniforms," she said slowly. "But I promise you, those were not my men."

"Your men?" Greg repeated.

"You didn't know?" she asked. "Fury didn't tell you who I was?"

"No." Greg looked at Douglas, who shook his head.

"Director Kate Stewart, Head of Scientific Research of UNIT," the woman said, her voice crisp. "I took over and reorganized the entire department after the mess that they made of my father's work."

"Your father." Greg paused for a moment, then realized who she was. "You're Alistair's daughter? _You're_ Tiger?"

She grinned. "You knew my Dad?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. Mycroft introduced me. Sorry to hear about him passing."

She shook her head. "You can offer your sympathies later. Right now, let's make sure that I don't have to offer mine."

"Do you know either of those two?" Douglas asked, pointing at the computer screen. "The ones that came in the front were pretty clear."

"Not on sight, I'm afraid. I can run a biometric analysis, but that might take a bit of time. And I'd have to go back to HQ to do it," Kate said. "What do you know?"

"Not a hell of a lot."

She grimaced. "Right. I have your mobile. Once I come up with something, I'll call." She frowned down at the her computer, then played the video again. "I don't know, Greg. I'll do what I can. But... I just don't know."

Greg nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. "All right. You let me know what you find."

"Where now, Greg?" Douglas asked.

"The Met. I need to see what came up on the CCTV feeds."

#

When Sherlock woke up, his head was pounding. For a moment, he thought the feeling of metal digging into his wrists was another of Jim's power games. But Jim never played with real handcuffs, said they were dangerous. Then Sherlock remembered the ice-cream.

He blinked, feeling his lashes sticking together. Blood. Blood on his face. His? He wasn't sure. There was tape on his face, too, covering his mouth. He blinked again, looking around.

He was handcuffed, his hands behind him, looped around a pole. An upright. Metal grating instead of a floor. Some kind of catwalk. He turned and looked down, seeing the floor a long way down. Incentive not to struggle. He looked around and saw Mycroft. They'd handcuffed his good wrist to the railing of the catwalk, over his head. His broken arm was taped to his body, layer on layer of silver tape that seemed to also be securing him to the upright. He was also gagged, and his eyes were closed. But that didn't mean he was unconscious. His breathing and the stiff way he held himself said otherwise.

Who? Sherlock had gotten a glimpse of a man in uniform, had barely had time to grab a knife and try to defend himself before the room had been flooded with gas. Not enough data. Perhaps Mycroft knew? He grunted, but Mycroft didn't move.

Time for drastic measures. He hadn't done this since he was a boy. Mummy had showed them both, taught them both. It had only ever worked between the three of them. But it was hard, and required a degree of intimacy that Sherlock found uncomfortable. No matter. It needed to be done. He closed his eyes, took a long breath, and _reached_...

_Mycroft!_

Mycroft jerked. He didn't open his eyes, and Sherlock felt a wave of panic from his brother.

_It's me. It's Sherlock._

. _.. Sherlock?_ The sheer amount of fear in Mycroft's mind was nearly paralyzing.

_Yes!_

_Where are we?_

Sherlock looked around once more _. I don't know. A warehouse. I can't tell more. Are you hurt?_

_No._

_Good. Did you see the men?_

There was a long hesitation. _UNIT uniforms._

_UNIT?_ Sherlock swallowed, tipping his head back, trying to think. Why was Mycroft so frightened? _Did you recognize them, Mycroft?_

Mycroft went silent, and Sherlock groaned. This... this was bad.

_Sherlock?_

_Mycroft?_

_Don't let them take my mind. Not again. Please._


	4. Chapter 4

 Greg sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, opening his eyes to find a steaming cup of coffee and a danish next to the keyboard.

"Where did that come from?" he asked, turning. Douglas held up a similar cup.

"You didn't eat," he said simply. "I've called Helena, let her know I'll be home when I'm home. Now, have you found anything?"

"I need to run through it again," Greg answered, turning back to the computer. "I'm having to do things two and three times. Mycroft would have seen it at once." He picked up the coffee and took a long swallow, then looked at Douglas. "You're as close to Martin as anyone. So you might know how I'm feeling right now. Do you ever feel--"

"Inadequate?" Douglas interrupted. "Constantly. Once he came into his own, I understood what it meant to be a... well, a sidekick."

"Sidekick? You've been reading comic books."

Douglas snorted. "My captain is a part-alien wizard superhero who has saved the world three times. I don't have to read comic books, I'm living in them."

Greg snickered. "Suppose you're right."

"And, since I'm going to be the sidekick, I'm going to do the best that I can," Douglas continued. "I'll do the same with you."

"I'm not a superhero," Greg pointed out.

"You're a Detective-Inspector. Now, eat your danish and tell me what you found."

Greg smiled at the confidence in Douglas' voice. It was more than he felt. He picked up the danish and took a bite, then started the video once more. "This is two minutes before the time stamp on the house cameras--"

"Why two minutes?" Douglas interrupted.

"Figured it was a good interval," Greg answered.

"But wouldn't they have to have been in place before that?" Douglas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "One thing I've learned from Martin is that things don't happen like they do in movies. There wouldn't be a van screaming up to the front of the house and people come pouring out. Someone would have noticed."

Greg blinked, then looked back at the screen. "You may have just picked up what I've been missing. I've watched this video three times, but I haven't gone back more than half an hour before." He reset the video, setting it up to stream quickly and starting at dawn.

"All right. Here we go," he said as he started the video. "Watch closely. You may catch something I miss."

In high-speed, they watched as a black cab pulled up and Sherlock got out. He entered the townhouse, and Greg left, turning left as he walked out of frame. Cars went past in both directions, and a panel van slid into a parking space a few doors down. Several men got out and went into that townhouse.

"Who's moving?"

"That house is vacant," Greg answered.

Douglas hummed softly, then coughed. "Then why are they moving things _out_ of the house?"

Greg stopped the video, catching a clear frame of the men carrying a large box out of the house. "Douglas, you're a damned genius!" he gasped, starting the video again. A second box. Then a third. The fourth box slipped from one man's hands as they came down the steps, scattering crockery shards all over the pavement. The men started to argue, a silent, gesticulating fight that almost distracted Greg once more.

"How did I not see this before?" he murmured, watching as two men in UNIT uniforms came into view from the other direction. They huddled in front of Lestrade's own door for a moment, then the door burst inwards and they vanished inside. A few minutes later, another large box was carried out of the vacant townhouse. Then one more. All of the men got back into the van, and the van drove away.

"Misdirection," Douglas said. "Like stage magic. You look where they want you to look. You saw the accident and the fight, so you missed the break-in."

"But how did you know to look?" Greg demanded.

"Never try to con a con-man," Douglas answered.

"I don't think I want an explanation to that," Greg said He took some screenshots of the relevant frames and sent them to Sally, then got up. "I need to have that van traced." His mobile picked that moment to ring, and he glanced at it to see Kate Stewart's name.

"Kate, tell me you have something?" he said, heading for the door.

"I have something, but I'm not sure how much help it will be," she answered. "Those two men, I have them both."

"You have them?" Greg repeated. "In custody?"

A moment's pause. "In the morgue. We just found both of them dead. From all appearances, carbon monoxide poisoning. Mutual suicide, complete with note."

"Pull the other one."

"I know. I'm not believing it either. We're testing the bodies now."

"Call me when you have something."

"Bad news?" Douglas asked as Greg shoved his mobile back into his pocket.

"The two who came in the front door are dead."

"Damn," Douglas breathed. "Now what?"

"Now..." Greg frowned, then looked at Douglas. "How'd they get access to that house? It's been empty for weeks now."

"So?"

"So who has access to it?" Greg asked. He turned and ran down the hall towards his office. "Come on. I can get into the property records. The agent has to know who has the keys."

#

Sherlock growled in frustration, tugging hard against the handcuffs and feeling another ticklish trickle running down the back of his hand and over his fingers. The locks were the wrong way 'round, and he had no tools, so he couldn't pick them. And The cuffs were too tight for him to slip, no matter how hard he pulled. He shook his head, trying to get sweat-soaked curls out of his eyes, wincing at the pain in his head. Concussion seemed likely. A simple headache wouldn't have lasted this long. However long it had been. One hour? Two? Longer? He couldn't tell.

_How badly are you hurt?_ Mycroft asked. Good. He was starting to calm down, starting to think.

_I'll live. Did they hurt you?_

_No._

_Can you get free?_

_No._ There was a tinge of regret in Mycroft's thoughts. _Stop fighting, Brother. You'll only lose more blood._

_I have to get you out of here._

He felt Mycroft's amusement. _Why, Sherlock. I'm touched._

_And you're doing better. Good._ Sherlock fell still, breathing heavily _. Why are we here?_

_Revenge?_

Sherlock nodded, hearing footsteps in the distance. They were coming closer. _Of course, but why?_

_We destroyed them. Naturally, they want to return the favor. Brother..._ Sherlock looked up, seeing Mycroft watching him. _I am sorry, Brother. You should not be here._

_I'm the one that sent the commands._ _While you were their prisoner, I might add. You had nothing to do with it._ _If anyone shouldn't be here, it's you._ Sherlock looked around, already knowing there was nothing that he could use. _Have you tried to reach Greg?_ _The way Martin reached Olivia?_

_I have tried._ _He's mind-blind. He will find us. I've no doubt._

Privately, Sherlock had his own doubts. Greg was good. But was he good enough?

_He will find us._ Mycroft insisted.

_I hope you're right, Brother._ Sherlock looked away as the footsteps started to ring against metal. Steps. They were coming here.

"Well now. The Holmes brothers are awake at last."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, saw the recognition in his eyes, and felt a flare of rage. He turned back and saw the man. Older. Balding. Career military. Sherlock had no idea who he was. But Mycroft apparently did.

"Well, now, Mister Holmes. Are you ready to finish what we started?" he said, looking past Sherlock. He gestured, and a young man came up to stand next to him, a predatory look on his narrow face. Sherlock felt something like the brush of greasy fingers against his mind. Instinct overrode logic, and he pushed back.

"Oh, this one is even more sensitive," the young man said. "Can I break him?"

"Not yet. Focus on the other," the military man ordered. The young man nodded, looking at Mycroft. Sherlock growled behind his gag and reached once more, mentally standing between Mycroft and the telepath.

"Well!" the young man laughed. "Protective. Looks like I'll get to break them both."

"Fine. Just be quick about it." The military man glared at them, then turned and walked back down the stairs. The telepath sat down on the catwalk, resting his chin on his hand.

"This is going to be fun," he said to Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

"Who the hell is Winifred Bambera?" Greg snapped into the speaker on his desk phone.

"Winifred Bambera?" Kate repeated. "Brigadier Bambera is my predecessor. She retired shortly before the 456 mess. Which is why Oduya got away with so much. He was acting Brigadier. Winifred would never have allowed anything that he did. Why?"

"It's her house. The townhouse that they used as a diversion was her house. So, where is she?"

"Last I heard? Canberra."

Greg nodded, jotting down a note. "Right. So, whoever is behind this knew she was gone."

"Which lends credence to your theory that this is UNIT. I've got the preliminary reports on the two corporals."

"Go ahead."

"Both of them were court martialed after the 456. Something about an attack on a castle in Scotland?"

"Yeah, I was there. What else?"

"It wasn't suicide. We're still trying to figure out what killed them. What kind of weapon, I mean. The damage is like nothing I've ever seen before. I'm going through our records--"

"What sort of damage?" Douglas asked.

"Complete cellular disruption of the brain."

Greg glanced at Douglas, a cold shiver running down his spine. "Kate... could a telepath do that?"

"A telepath?" she repeated. "Greg, what are you talking about?"

"There was a telepath involved, when UNIT took Mycroft hostage. Fury said that he stripped everything out of Mycroft's head."

"Oh, my God," Kate murmured. "I'll... I'll check. I'll need to talk to an expert. And... it's the middle of the night in New York."

"You do that." Greg leaned back in his chair. Sally stood inside the doorway, a file in her hands. He nodded, and she came in and closed the door. "Right, what have we got? Kate, this is Inspector Sally Donovan."

Sally nodded towards the phone, then grimaced at the gesture. "That van is registered to a David Gordon. I've got his address." She set the file down on Greg's desk. "Gordon's son Nathaniel is a UNIT corporal."

"Corporal Gordon? Let me check..." Greg heard the clicking of a keyboard. "I thought so. He's in Afghanistan," Kate said. "He's a good man. Decorated. And... arrested for dereliction of duty. He refused to march on civilians. The charges were dropped, but it involves that castle in Scotland. And his refusal is the reason he wasn't court martialed with the others."

"All right. So, your good man's father was involved in our kidnapping?" Douglas said.

"No. Just his van," Greg corrected. "So... someone who knows that Gordon is out of the country. How many of the people he served with before the 456 were court martialed?"

"The two who turned up dead, to start with. Three others. And their commanding officer."

There was a sharp knocking on the door, and Sally opened it and took a file from the young woman outside. She glanced at it as she closed the door. "Sir, this is a vehicle theft report. David Gordon reported his van missing at ten this morning. Said it was stolen sometime overnight."

"I wager it was," Douglas murmured.

Greg nodded, closing his eyes. A stolen van. A deployed soldier. Disgraced officers. "Who was the commanding officer?" he asked.

"Sergeant Sergei Zbrigniev," Kate answered. "He served under my father and under Brigadier Bambera. Then he went over the line, working with Oduya." There was the sound of papers rustling. "His part in the whole plan... that's odd. I don't see how that came to light. It doesn't appear to have been in the official papers."

"Oh, I bet I can guess," Greg said. "A pair of hackers named Sherlock Holmes and Olivia Crieff. And now we have motive. So, where is he now, this... what was it? Brignev?"

"Zbrigniev. And he's in Aldershot."

Sally frowned. "I thought they shut Aldershot down years ago."

"For regular military prisoners, yes," Kate answered. "For top secret military prisoners... well..."

"I see," Greg said. "Right. Find him."

"I'll call you back in ten minutes or less." The line went dead, and Greg looked across at Douglas and Sally.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Report from forensics. There were two bloodtypes in the kitchen. One of them was O negative."

"Sherlock."

"Yes, sir. And there have been no reports from any area A&E over knife wounds."

Greg nodded absently. They were running out of time. He was sure of it. And if the telepath was involved again...

He straightened and grabbed the phone, punching the redial.

"Greg?" Kate sounded confused. "I haven't had a chance to check Aldershot yet--"

"I'll bet you a dinner out he's not there," Greg interrupted. "And I have a question for you. How many telepaths does UNIT have? It can't be many."

"Why... oh. Oh!" she gasped and there was a furious clicking of keys. "On staff at the moment, four. And I can lay hands on three of them within five minutes. They're all here on base."

"Where's the fourth?" Greg demanded.

"I... don't know."

"I want all of the information. Now."

More keys clicking, then Kate said, "In your inbox. His name is Anthony March. 27 years old. Trained by STRIKE, before they were absorbed by UNIT. Disciplined... quite a lot, actually. Looks like we were about to send him to New York for more training."

"And?"

"And... he last checked in yesterday. Which should have set off alarm bells, since the telepaths are supposed to check in with their superiors twice a day." Kate sighed. "Wonderful. Right. I've set up a high alert search for him."

"We'll start running the facial recognition scans, now that we have a face to go on," Sally added. Greg nodded and started typing, forwarding the information to her. "Past twelve hours, sir?"

"Yeah. Go on. Get to it."

She nodded and fled, and Greg scowled. "He's not in Aldershot, is he?"

Another sigh. "No. Last time we have Zbrigniev on any scan is last night."

Greg nodded. "Right. So here's what I think. Your Zbrigniev lets your little rogue telepath have his jollies. Until he gets caught and the fun ends, and you crack down on him. If he gets sent off, what happens to him, hm? If he doesn't shape up?"

"He gets locked away from his powers," Kate answered. "Our contact in New York is quite possibly the most powerful telepath in existence."

"And March knows that, doesn't he? And he doesn't want that, now. He wants to keep having power over people, keep being able to find out all the little secrets," Greg continued. "So he finds out what happens. Just how the secret spilled. He finds out that Sherlock was behind it. He can't get at Liv right now, because she's out of the country. But he finds out that he can get Sherlock, and he can finish what he started on Mycroft. But he can't do it alone. So he goes to Zbrigniev and the others and offers them the men who ruined them. Steals the old man's van out of spite, I assume. He's the one behind the whole thing, not your Sergeant."

"You think so?" Kate asked.

"Yeah. So we need to find that mind-reader."

"How? Won't he be able to tell we're coming?" Douglas asked.

"There are things that block telepathy. Minerals. I'll get mind-shields for you," Kate said.

"So long as they don't look like aluminum hats," Douglas said. Kate laughed.

"They don't. Right. Shall I come to the Met, or do you want to come to me?"

"You come here," Greg said.

"I'll be there in half an hour." The line went dead, and Greg looked up to see Douglas looking at him with frank appreciation in his eyes.

"I don't think Mycroft could have done it any better," he said.

"Maybe not. But he'd have done it faster."

#

Sherlock was getting tired. The constant bombardment of thoughts and emotions battering his mind was exhausting and overwhelming. He wanted to be sick, and knew that he couldn't. Instead, he ducked his head and closed his eyes, feeling Mycroft's warmth behind him, adding strength to his defenses.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could do this. The inside of his head felt raw.

_Poor little untrained Sherlock_ , the oily voice whispered. _Sure you don't want to just let me in? I could give you such lovely thoughts..._

Unbidden, the image of Jim, standing over a kneeling Sherlock, the riding crop in his hands. "You want to surrender, don't you, my dove?"

Furious at himself for letting even that much leak out, Sherlock shoved back, hard. He heard laughter, and felt a caress against his mind almost like a kiss.

_You're almost as much fun as your brother,_ the voice murmured. _But I've no time to play with you any more._

The assault began again.


	6. Chapter 6

 "Telepaths, sir?" Sally asked softly. "Really?"

"I know," Greg answered. He rubbed one hand over his face. "Yeah, five years ago, who'd have thought we'd be facing telepaths and witches and vampires and aliens and fuck all else. Nice to know what they've been hiding from us, hm?"

"If you say so," Sally said. "We've got a hit on the facial recognition scan. Not March, though. Zbrigniev was in Croyden three hours ago."

"Croyden?" Greg frowned, thinking about the area. Croyden. What was in Croyden? Historic area. Shopping. Business district. Not a place he'd expect to find... Wait... follow that thought...

"Detective-Inspector? There's a Kate Stewart here to see you."

Greg nodded, looking up as Douglas came back into the office, carrying more coffee and a wrapped parcel that probably held a sandwich. Crumbs on his coat meant the sandwich was probably for Greg, and look at me, deducing, Greg thought. He grinned, taking the sandwich from Douglas. "Send her in. Sally, it's late. Go home."

"No, sir," she said firmly. "I'm staying."

Greg smiled. "Thanks. Hi, Kate. Kate Stewart, this is Sally Donovan."

"A pleasure." Kate came in and closed the office door. "Anything?"

"Yeah. Tell me that this... STRIKE, was it? Tell me their base was in Croyden." Greg felt a surge of satisfaction at the look of shock on her face.

"How did you know that?"

"The telepath is the one in charge. He's got hostages, and he needs to get them out of sight. Where is he going to go? Someplace he knows really well, and that he knows no one else can find. So, where is it?"

"Near Central Nursery, on Coombes Road."

Greg reached down and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, taking out his seldom-used gun and holster. He put the holster on, checked the magazine on the gun and holstered it, then got up and grabbed his coat,. "Let's go."

Sally promised to have a full team in place as soon as she could, but Greg knew that they couldn't wait. He and Kate squeezed into Douglas' car, and Douglas started driving.

"Here." Kate handed Greg a small, metal pendant. "Put it on."

"What is it?" Greg asked, taking the surprisingly heavy thing from her.

"Matricite encased in lead. Matricite blocks telepathy."

"And the lead?" Douglas asked.

"Matricite is also somewhat radioactive," Kate said. "This is safe to wear for a few hours."

"I see. Thank you, but no thank you," Douglas said firmly. "I have no wish to glow in the dark."

"You're a pilot, aren't you? You're exposed to more radiation when you fly to New York."

"Co-pilot, and I don't fly to New York anymore," Douglas retorted. "Things happen there."

"Douglas was in New York when the Chitauri invaded," Greg said.

"Oh. I apologize."

"No offense taken. But I'm not wearing that thing."

"Douglas, telepaths can take over your mind, make you do things," Kate said. "March could use you as a weapon against us."

Greg turned to see the stubborn set to Douglas' mouth, and knew he was going to refuse. "Douglas, swing by the townhouse and drop us there. I'll get my car."

"What?" Douglas asked, sounding shocked.

"I'm not jeopardizing my husband's life because you won't wear the damn +5 amulet of protection!"

Douglas licked his lips, then nodded. Then he grinned. "Never figured you for a gaming man, Detective-Inspector."

"Yeah, well, I went to uni."

Kate snickered. "Really. The both of you are too much. These are safe for up to four hours. If it takes us that long--"

"Then it's not rescue, it's recovery," Greg finished quietly. "I'm not letting it get to that point."

#

_Sherlock?_

_I can't... it hurts..._

_I know, Brother. I know._

_Mycroft..._

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. You tried. I know you tried. Stand down. Let go._

_No!_

_He'll be back soon, Sherlock. You can't keep him out anymore._

_He cannot have you. I won't let him hurt you again. I... I won't..._

_Sherlock?_

_...I won't lose you, too._

Heavy footsteps on the metal steps, and Sherlock lost the thread of thought. He wasn't sure if Mycroft had heard him. He wasn't sure it mattered. They were both going to die here.

"March!"

"Sergeant?" the telepath called out. He wasn't on the catwalk. Good. He seemed to need to be close in order to do his worst. Having him elsewhere meant a respite.

"We need to move out. You said you had a plan on dealing with these two when you were done with them?"

That oily, sickening laugh. "Yes, Sergeant. I do. I'm not quite finished with them, though." His voice was getting louder, and a softer step was on the stairs.

"We've got no time left. Not if we want the woman, too. We need to get out of the country."

A heavy sigh. "All right. I would have loved to have gotten to the bottom of how an untrained telepath could keep me out so well, and shield a second mind while he's doing it. But I suppose there are some secrets I can't have. Yet."

"Yet? What do you mean yet?"

"I mean to stay just long enough to take it from his mind while he's dying."

"I just said we have no time!"

"Patience, Sergeant. It will only take a little while longer. Do you know why this area is called Central Nursery?"

"Does it matter?"

March laughed again. "Because they grow all the plants for Croyden's public areas here.  So the grounds up above are extensive. And there's always some digging going on."

_#_

Greg peered out the windows into the darkness. "This is it?"

"This is it. The base is underground. The park here covers it all." Kate looked at him. "What do you have for a weapon, Greg?"

"Glock 17. Standard SFO-issue."

"I'm armed, but not heavily," Douglas added.

"Right. Let's go." Greg nodded and got out of the car, stepped back and letting Kate out. Douglas joined them, and Kate took the lead. There were no lights in the park, and Greg picked his way carefully as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. From somewhere off to his right, he heard the rumble of machinery.

"What's that?" Douglas whispered. "Who would be working this late at night?"

Greg shook his head and started towards the sound, picking up speed as the sound grew louder. Now he could hear laughter...


	7. Chapter 7

 The first thing Greg saw was the bulldozer, backing away from a partially-filled hole. It stopped, and a man jumped out of the cab. A man that Greg recognized -- it was Zbrigniev. He turned away, not seeing them in the darkness. "March! Let's go!"

"Not yet." Now Greg saw him, a slightly-built young man crouching near the edge of the hole. He looked over his shoulder at Zbrigniev. "Another minute, and I'll have it."

"Hurry up." Zbrigniev turned, pacing. "Gary is already in the car."

"On three," Kate whispered, drawing a weapon that was unlike anything Greg had ever seen before. Somehow, that didn't surprise him as much as it should have. He dismissed it, and looked at Douglas.

"You stay out of sight. Back us up."

Douglas nodded, and Greg drew his gun, thumbing the safety off and racking the slide. The sound seemed louder than usual, but the two men didn't seem to hear it. Very distantly, he heard sirens. He glanced at Kate, who nodded and started forward, holding a small torch up and shining the light towards the two men.

"Zbrigniev!" she shouted. "It's over, Sergei! Give up the hostages!"

Zbrigniev looked startled, then smiled. "Kate! Fancy meeting you here."

"Where are they, Sergei?" Kate asked. "Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Where are they?"

He shook his head, still smiling. March came over and stood at his side, staring intently at Greg for a moment. Then he frowned.

"They're blocked, Sergeant," he said. "They must have known I was here."

"Where are they?" Kate repeated.

"Who?" March asked, a small smile on his face. The smile faded as the sirens grew louder. "Sergeant."

"I hear them," Zbrigniev said. "I'm not going back, Kate."

"That's not up to you."

A muffled shot rang out, and Greg fought the urge to turn. He raised his voice, "Douglas?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Douglas called back. "The chap who was trying to sneak up on you? Not so much."

"You're going back to Aldershot, Sergei. And March... well, I doubt you'll be of any use to anyone when this is done. Unless you give me the hostages. Now."

The light played over March's face. He smirked, and Greg watched as his eyes darted towards his left. Towards the hole.

"Oh, my God," Greg breathed. "He buried them. They're down there!"

"They're not dead. Not yet," March said. "I set it up so they wouldn't die too quickly."

"But you only have... let's see... three to five minutes left, Detective-Inspector," Zbrigniev added. "Will your men get here in time? Because you have a choice. You can have us... or you can save them."

It wasn't even a choice. But still, Greg hesitated. Until Kate snapped at him, "Go, already! I've got them!"

Greg stepped back, out of Kate's line of fire, started towards the hole. Saw Zbrigniev's hand move...

He and Douglas fired at the same time, and the Sergeant jerked and spun and fell, his gun landing next to him with a thump. The telepath turned and ran.

"Leave him! There's no where he can hide now," Kate shouted. "Go!"

Greg was already moving, already clambering down into the hole. "Mycroft!" he shouted, shoving great handfuls of soil out of the pile. "Sherlock, we're coming!"

No way to know if they heard. Douglas was swearing continuously, pawing through the dirt on the other side of the mound. Greg heard Sally's voice, heard the sounds of people coming closer. Another person was scrabbling at the dirt next to him, he stole a quick glance and saw Anderson, a look of horror on his face.

"Got something!" Douglas shouted. "A leg!"

"Who?" Greg called. Keep digging. Keep digging! How long had it been?

"Not sure... wait... Sherlock. I've got Sherlock!"

Greg's fingers met soft resistance and hooked in fabric. "Here!" he shouted. "Carefully!" He dug and brushed and pulled, finding silver tape over a familiar blue shirt. "I've got him!' I've got My."

"Ambulance is here," Anderson said, pulling more dirt away. Together, he and Greg uncovered Mycroft's back.

"What the... hey, I've got an oxygen tank." He heard Anderson say. Then... "Oh... fuck."

"What?"

"M2 tank. Open full. Get them out!" Anderson shoved the tank to the side and started tugging at Mycroft's shirt. "Seven minutes of air, maybe, for one person who isn't panicking," he muttered. "There are two hoses hooked up here."

"Three to five minutes, he said." Greg shoved more dirt aside, saw ginger and silver hair mixed in. "My!"

Together, he and Anderson pulled Mycroft out of the dirt, rolling him onto his back. There was an oxygen mask taped to his face, covering a tape gag. He wasn't breathing. Greg tugged the mask and gag free, covering Mycroft's mouth with his own and blowing into his lungs. He felt Anderson's hand as the other man fumbled at Mycroft's throat.

"We have a heartbeat!" he whispered urgently.

Greg ignored him, concentrating on breathing for two. Come on, My. Don't leave me!

_I... I won't._

The voice echoed in Greg's mind, and he almost lost the rhythm of breathing. Then Mycroft coughed. He took a short breath and coughed again.

"My," Greg breathed, feeling dizzy and not at all certain that it was from lack of oxygen. "My, I've got you." He looked up, seeing Douglas and Sally hovering over Sherlock. Sally had her hair stuffed down the back of her jacket.

"He's breathing," she said, sounding a little breathless herself. "Still out, but breathing on his own. I think we got to them in time."

"...Greg." Mycroft's voice was weak, raspy. He opened his eyes, then closed them again, and Greg touched his cheek gently.

"I'm here, My. I've got you."

"... telepath?"

"Don't worry about him," Kate said. "He'll be dealt with."

Anderson reappeared, leaning in close. He'd found a pair of medic scissors, and was started to cut away the tape binding Mycroft's upper body.

"Sorry about the shirt," he muttered. "There's no way I'm going to be able to keep from cutting it to ribbons."

"Damn the shirt."

Anderson grinned. "Thought you'd say that."

"Clear a path!" Greg looked up to see paramedics, sliding down the slope into the hole, clambering over the dirt. One team headed for Sally, the other came towards him.

"Detective-Inspector, we need room," one of them said gently.

"All right. My, I'm right here." Greg

Mycroft smiled slightly, and nodded. Just before the paramedic slipped another oxygen mask over his face, he said something, his voice too low for Greg to hear.

"What? My, what did you say?"

"Detective-Inspector, it will have to wait," the paramedic said firmly. They clustered around Mycroft, taking his vitals, strapping him to a gurney and starting to move him out of the hole. Greg sat down, suddenly exhausted. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Douglas, who sat down next to him.

"You did it," Douglas said. "You found them."

Greg nodded. "With your help. Thank you, Douglas."

Douglas shook his head. "I may not be a captain any more, but I'll be the best damned co-pilot anyone ever had."

Greg snorted. "You are."

"Thank you. And I'm going to make my own deduction."

"How's that, then?"

"We couldn't get Sherlock out. Something was pinning him down. Until you got Mycroft out. Then Sherlock came free, too. So I think..."

"Mycroft was trying to protect Sherlock," Greg finished.

"That's my thought."

"I think you're right." Greg looked around. "Where's Kate? What are we going to do about March?"

"You're not going to worry about him," Kate called from up above. "I'm calling Charles in New York. He'll handle March."

"Charles... should I know that name?" Greg asked.

"Don't worry about it," Kate answered. She smiled and nodded. "Take care, Detective-Inspector." Then she walked away.

"Come on." Douglas got up and held his hand out. "I'll drive you over to the hospital."

#

Greg spent the first hour at the hospital making calls. John swore at him for almost a full minute, until apparently Jim took the phone away from him. They would be back in London as soon as they could get a flight. Greg assured Jim that Sherlock was fine, and that his worst injuries were from tearing up his wrists. That he'd only be in the hospital for a day or two because they were watching him and Mycroft both for signs of pneumonia from breathing in particulate matter. He was proud of himself for even being able to say "particulate matter" after being awake for twenty-four hours.

Then he called France.

"...'lo?"

"Sorry to wake you, Martin, but there's been... a problem."

"Problem?" Martin sounded completely awake now. "What kind of problem?"

"Everyone is fine. Well, mostly fine."

"Oh, now you've scared the crap out of me."

"Sorry. Look, it's been a long night." Greg rubbed his forehead and rushed into the conversation he didn't want to be having. "Sherlock and Mycroft were kidnapped yesterday. We found them. They're all right. They're both in hospital, though. They'll be here for a day or two."

"Good Lord!" Greg heard Martin's voice, muffled as if he'd covered the receiver, reporting what Greg had just told him. He heard Livvy's gasp clearly. Then Martin was back. "Look... ah... we'll be back... what time is it? Good Lord... ah... I'll make some calls. Maybe Herc can get us on a flight today. We'll be back as soon as we can be. I'll call once I know more."

"All right. Just... he's fine. They're both fine."

"I know. Liv wants all the details."

"I'll tell you both when you get here," Greg promised. Then promised it again when Livvy took the phone from her husband and demanded answers.

"Papa Greg!"

"Look, Liv, I've been up since yesterday 3 Ack Emma. I can't give you the details now. Once they get Mycroft into a room, I'll get some sleep. Then I can answer anything. All right?"

She went silent, then said, "You're sure he's going to be all right?" Her voice was very small and scared.

"He'll be fine, Liv. Promise."

"All right. We'll see you later. Get some sleep."

"Promise that, too. Love you."

"Love you, too, Papa Greg." The mobile went dead, and Greg sat down and closed his eyes.

_Am I disturbing you?_

Greg sat up. "What the fuck?"

_I apologize. My name is Charles Xavier. Kate Stewart said she'd mentioned me?_

"You can't use the damned phone?"

Amusement. _This is faster, and far more private. You don't need to speak aloud. I wanted to assure you that Anthony March will no longer be a problem to you and your family._

_Really?_

_Yes. I do apologize. Your husband and his brother?_

_Are going to be fine. Thanks._

_Good. If I might offer my assistance?_

Greg frowned. _What do you mean?_

_Mental assault is... a delicate matter to recover from. Something of which I'm certain you are aware. If you and your husband are willing, I can... manipulate those memories, make them less immediate--_

_Mycroft would have a cat!_

_I thought that might be your answer. I can also offer the information for counselors who specialize in dealing with mutants._

Greg frowned slightly. _Mycroft isn't a mutant._

_No, but his attacker was. And the counselors would not just be for your husband. The information I took from March also involved his assault of Sherlock. And some rather fascinating information that he took from Sherlock's mind._

_Oh. Oh, Lord._ Greg leaned back and rubbed his forehead. _How much do you know?_

_I'm quite interested in meeting the rest of your family, Detective-Inspector. And I assure you, this knowledge is safe with me._

_Is it safe with March?_

There was a moment of silence _. Anthony March no longer has any information. His mind has been wiped clean._

_You can do that?_

I _can._

Greg didn't miss the stress on the word "I." _Right... right now, I'm not sure if I should thank you or arrest you._

More amusement. _Get some sleep, Detective-Inspector. I will be coming to London the day after tomorrow to meet with Miss Stewart. I'll call then._

_Use the damned phone._

_I will. And remember to take the matricite off and give it back to UNIT._

Greg sat up and looked down at his chest, at the lead pendant that he still wore around his neck. _That didn't stop you?_

No answer. Greg made a mental note to ask Mister Xavier when he met the man in person. Down the hall, he saw Mycroft's doctor, accompanying a stretcher. As he rose, he realized that the matricite hadn't stopped Mycroft, either.


	8. Chapter 8

 Greg woke up well past noon to find out that John and Jim had arrived mid-morning, and that the only things that saved Greg from a repeat of John's tirade on the phone were the dual facts that he was asleep, and that Douglas had come to the hospital first thing to check on him, and refused to let John or Jim wake Greg up just to yell at him.

When Greg did wake up, Douglas waited until after he'd eaten something before telling him that John and Jim were there. Then he volunteered to sit with Mycroft while Greg went to "beard the lions." Which turned more complicated than Greg had originally thought, because as he walked out of the room, he ran right into Martin and Olivia.

"Greg!"

Greg held his hands up. "You'll get your turn to yell at me," he told Olivia. "Just not right now. John gets his turn first, since he's been here longer."

Livvy stopped, looking startled. "I wasn't going to yell," she said quickly.

"You didn't call me Papa, either," Greg pointed out. He sighed. "Look, Liv. I am sorry--"

"It wasn't your fault," Martin interrupted. "And she knows that." The words were said firmly, with a full stop at the end of each one. Which told Greg that Martin had had a time of it, convincing a certain Holmes female that this was not her step-father's fault. Greg wondered, on the edge of still-not-enough-sleep hilarity, just how big the hammer was that Martin used to drive the point home.

Livvy, for her part, didn't object. She narrowed her eyes and studied him for a moment, then sighed. "You haven't had enough sleep yet. Did you eat?"

"Douglas made sure I ate. Now he's with your dad while I go get yelled at."

"John and Jim shouldn't be yelling at you," Martin said.

"Good luck on convincing them of that." Greg shook his head. "I'm all right. I'll go let John get it out of his system. Then I'll tell you all the whole thing. Where's Vee?"

"Home," Martin answered. "Mrs. Hudson came over to play Granny for an hour or two. We'll bring her back once we're sure that she won't get upset by seeing Granpa or Grandfather in hospital."

Greg nodded. "Good plan. How was EuroDisney?"

Martin shuddered theatrically. " _It's a Small World_. Fourteen times."

"I like _It's a Small World_!" Livvy protested. "I see something new every time!"

"From what John told me, that's not the Holmes record," Greg added. "Sherlock rode it twenty-three times when they went on their honeymoon."

"I imagine he's still hearing it, then," Martin said. "All right. Go see them. We'll go in with Mycroft."

"Douglas is in there."

"He is?" Martin glanced at the closed door. "He backed you up?"

"Completely."

Martin nodded. "You were in good hands, then. Right. Go on."

Greg smiled and headed down the corridor. Sherlock was three rooms down from Mycroft, Douglas had said. He went to the third door and tapped on it before opening it up and looking in.

Sherlock was as asleep as Mycroft. For such a tall man, it was odd to see how small he looked in the middle of the bed. Jim looked up as Greg entered. He nodded and turned back towards the bed.

John, however, wasn't as accepting. He grabbed Greg by the arm and marched him out of the room.

"Now, Detective-Inspector," John snapped. "Why don't you explain to me just what the fuck happened?"

"I was going to," Greg said. "Mind if we get Liv first? I don't want to do this twice."

"I was already on my way," Livvy said from behind him.

"Right. So, first of all, it was the bastard who came after in Scotland--"

"The Chitauri?" Livvy interrupted.

"No. There was another one. Sergei... something or other." Greg led the way to the waiting room and closed the door behind them. "And the telepath. The one that hurt My. Apparently, when you and Sherlock set UNIT on its arse, you pissed off a couple of people. The telepath knew about you, Livvy. He knew you and Sherlock destroyed them, and he told the other guy. Zbrigniev, that was his name."

"Zbrigniev?" John repeated. "Sergei Zbrigniev?"

"You knew him?"

"Met him a couple of times. He was another UNIT prat. He did this?"

"Yeah. We figure the telepath was behind the whole thing, though. I don't know why he wasn't taken down, after what he did to My--"

"Because Papa couldn't identify him," Livvy answered. "I... saw the desposition."

"You hacked the system."

"I didn't say that."

"Fine. Whatever. They were coming after you next, Liv. Zbrigniev wanted you and Sherlock, and March wanted another crack at My."

John looked away, then looked back. "And..."

"Dead."

"You?"

"Yes."

John nodded. "I owe you."

"No, you don't." Greg answered.

"And the telepath?"

"Yeah, about that." Greg ran his fingers through his hair. "Who the hell is Charles Xavier, and why doesn't he use the damned phone?"

Livvy's eyes widened. "Professor Xavier contacted you? Telepathically?"

"Yep. And I was wearing the super special blocks anything matri-whatever. He says he's coming to London tomorrow and wants to meet us."

"Oh." Livvy licked her lips and looked away. "All right. I've met him. He's very nice. He's... not what you expect."

"Expect for what?" John asked.

"For someone who could burn the brains out of an entire city," Livvy answered without batting an eye. Greg stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

"Right. Well, anyhow, he offered to make it so that Mycroft doesn't flinch whenever I come into a room."

"And you said?" John asked.

Greg just looked at his brother-in-law. "I like being a married man, John."

John grinned. "Good answer. So, what happened to the telepath? He dead, too?"

"Not sure. Kate Stewart from UNIT says not worry about it. So does Xavier. Actually, Xavier says that March's mind is wiped clean."

Livvy nodded. "If he says so, then it's done. He's a very good man, Greg. You'll like him. Uncle John, you're not going to yell at him, are you?"

"No," John answered. "Not anymore. I do have one question, though. How did you find them?"

Greg grinned. "You aren't the only one who learned some new tricks from your man. Just took me a little longer."

#

Mycroft slept for twelve hours straight. Late that afternoon, Greg looked up from the newspaper he was reading and found Mycroft watching him. He smiled.

"Hello, Gorgeous," he said softly. "It's all right."

"Greg?" Mycroft looked around the room. "How long have we been here?"

"Since very early this morning. Liv and Martin are here. And John and Jim are over with Sherlock." Greg got up and moved over to perch on the edge of the bed. "Want to tell me about it?"

Mycroft frowned slightly. "I..."

"I think it might help."

"Really, are you a counselor now, Greg?"

Greg shook his head. "No. Just someone who loves you." He reached out and covered Mycroft's hand with his own. "My, I thought I was going to lose you. I thought you were going to die in my arms."

"I remember..."

"You promised me you wouldn't leave."

Mycroft looked shocked. "You heard me?"

"And you heard me," Greg said. "You're a telepath? And you never thought to tell me?"

"I tried," Mycroft said. He laced his fingers into Greg's. "Mummy taught us when we were boys. Sherlock finds it uncomfortable, so we rarely do it. But Mummy and Father had a rapport, and I'd hoped we might be able to have the same. But... it never worked." He looked shy for a moment. "I did try, Greg."

Rapport? Greg frowned, then coughed. "You tried to reach me telepathically, during sex?"

Mycroft turned red. "It's when we're closest. How did you...?" He looked startled. "You... you deduced me. And... that was how you found us?"

"Learned from the best." Greg leaned down and kissed Mycroft on the forehead. "Now, before you ask, Sherlock is three doors down, and he was still asleep last time I checked."

"He may sleep longer than I. He was..."

"Assaulted. I know. Xavier told me."

A flicker of something -- fear?-- in Mycroft's eyes. "You spoke to Charles Xavier?"

"He'll be here tomorrow. Wants to talk to us about what he took out of March's mind before he wiped it. He's offered to try and help. So why will Sherlock sleep longer?"

"His mind needs to heal," Mycroft answered. "Greg, he put himself between me and the telepath. To protect me."

"Not surprised. He loves you. Don't need to be a genius to see that. Want to sit up?" When Mycroft nodded, Greg raised the head of the bed. Then he shifted around so that he was sitting next to Mycroft and put his arm around his husband. "I love you, too. We'll get through this. Xavier says he's got references for counselors. Or he'll help himself, he says."

"What did you tell him?"

"It's your head. It's up to you."

"I will... consider it." Mycroft leaned against Greg's shoulder. "When did the cast come off?"

"This morning," Greg answered. "There was dirt lodged in it, and the doctor says your arm is healed enough to not need it. It was coming off next week anyway."

Mycroft flexed his hand. "It feels odd."

"You'll need physical therapy. We'll work on it together." He tightened his arm, turning and kissing the top of Mycroft's head. "Whatever you need, love. I'm here. In sickness and in health, right?"

Mycroft tipped his head back and looked at Greg. "Have I told you recently how much I love you?"

Greg grinned. "Not since I saved your life, no."

"I love you, Gregory."

"I love you, too, My."


	9. Chapter 9

 The next morning, the doctors declared that Mycroft was essentially healthy. His lungs sounded clear, and he had suffered no permanent damage from the ordeal. Livvy and Martin arrived with clothes for him and for Greg, and he was officially discharged.

Sherlock, however, had not yet regained consciousness. He lay there, breathing regularly, his bandaged hands resting on his stomach, and did not wake.

It was early afternoon, and the family was squeezed into Sherlock's hospital room. Martin was the one who finally asked the question that everyone was thinking.

"Why won't he wake up?" he said. "The doctors say that there's nothing physically wrong with him. Or am I missing something?"

"You're not," John answered without turning. "There's no reason for him to still be unconscious."

"Mycroft, did you try..?" Greg asked softly.

"I did," Mycroft answered. "He's blocking me. I think... that perhaps he's retreated."

"He's hiding?" Jim asked. "Inside his head?"

"That would be my guess, yes." Mycroft sighed. "And I can't reach him where he's gone."

"So how to we get to him?" John asked.

"What about Xavier?" Greg suggested. "He's supposed to be here today."

John looked up, alarmed. "You want me to let another telepath poke around in his head? After one attacked him?"

"It wouldn't be the same, Uncle John," Livvy said gently. "The professor is a good man. He wouldn't hurt Daddy."

John glared at her. "You've met him?"

"Yes. Department business," Livvy said. John waited and she sighed. "All right. He was testing me."

"I thought it might be a good idea to have a telepath on staff," Mycroft added. "Since UNIT was adding them at the time."

"And we all know how well that went," Jim muttered.

"I'm not anywhere sensitive enough to be called a telepath," Livvy continued. "I did ask him about what happened when Martin was kidnapped. When he reached me. He says that sometimes, in extremis, a connection can be made that wouldn't otherwise be possible."

"That explains it, then," Greg murmured. Mycroft nodded.

John frowned, looked at Jim. Jim shoved his hands in his pockets, looked at the silent figure in he bed, then looked away.

"Do it," he said, his voice harsh. "I'm not... I can't do it. Not another funeral. Not for a while."

Greg looked around the room, at the faces that had seen far too much. He met John's eyes. "Want me to call him?" he offered.

John let out a long breath. He looked back at Sherlock, then nodded. "Yeah. Go ahead."

Greg nodded, patted Mycroft on the shoulder and walked out into the hall. He closed the door, looked up and down the hall. No one. Good. He'd feel like an idiot if there was anyone watching him. He took a deep breath, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

_Hey, Professor. Pick up_

"You needn't shout, Gregory."

It took Greg a moment to realize that he'd heard the voice with his ears, not his mind. He opened his eyes, expecting...

Anything but the almost-jovial looking grandfather in the wheelchair. He smiled, his eyes twinkling with repressed laughter, and held out one hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, Detective-Inspector."

Greg smiled in return, finding the man's good mood infectious. "Nice to meet you, too, Professor. In person, I mean."

"Yes, of course. You were trying to reach me?"

"Yeah," Greg answered. "You want me to tell you, or you want to just look?"

"You're allowing me access?"

"You were already in there, so why not?"

Xavier shook his head. "No, I wasn't. The surface mind, where we were speaking, is... very much like a telephone. I cannot see your inner thoughts. Nor would I try to look, without your permission. You're offering me deeper access. It would be faster, but it is also more intrusive."

"I've got nothing to hide," Greg said. "Go ahead."

Xavier looked at him intently, and the smile faded from his face. "Your husband is correct," he said. "And yes, I'll be able to help."

Greg nodded. "Thank you. We're just in here." He opened the door and looked inside, seeing everyone looking at him. He stood out of the way and let Xavier in through the door.

"Professor," Livvy said. "Thank you for coming."

"Hello, Olivia." Xavier smiled and took Livvy's hand, kissing her on the cheek when she bent down to kiss him. He looked past her at Martin. "Is this your Captain?"

"Yes. Martin, this is Charles Xavier."

Martin nodded soberly and shook Xavier's hand. "Sir. I can't honestly say it's a pleasure, given the circumstances. Will you be able to help?"

Xavier went serious. "I will do my best."

"From what we've heard, coming from you, that means a great deal," Jim said. "Jim Moran."

Xavier shook his hand and nodded, smiling slightly. "You understand that in taking the memories that March stole from Sherlock, I saw them all?"

Jim frowned slightly. "And...?"

"And I've read your papers, Doctor Moriarty. Your research was fascinating. And your death was a loss to the field of theoretical mathematics. A colleague of mine is quite interested in your work, and its potential application in genetics. Doctor Henry McCoy?"

Jim turned slightly pink. "I... well. I'm flattered."

Xavier nodded and looked at John, who was watching him warily. "Captain Doctor John Watson. I promise you, I will do whatever I can to bring him out. And I will not hurt him."

John didn't say anything. He nodded once, curtly, and stepped back from the bed, allowing Xavier to roll his chair up next to the bed. Greg moved over to stand next to Mycroft, resting his hand on his husband's shoulder. Mycroft reached up and took Greg's hand, holding on tightly. Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand and looked around. Martin was standing behind Livvy, his arms around her. John had gone to stand next to Jim, and as Greg watched, Jim reached out and rested his hand on John's back, offering silent support.

At the bed, Xavier reached up, resting one hand on Sherlock's forehead, taking his hand with the other. In a low, gentle voice he called, "Sherlock?" Greg heard Sherlock's breath hitch. Nothing else was said. For several minutes, the only sound in the room was Sherlock's increasingly more rapid breathing. He moaned once, and John looked ready to leap toward the bed, stopped only by Jim, who grabbed his arm. Then, gradually, Sherlock's breathing slowed to normal, and Greg felt Mycroft relax.

Finally Xavier breathed out, softly. "It's safe now, Sherlock," he murmured. "You can come out now."

One long breath. Then another. Then Sherlock blinked rapidly and opened his eyes. He looked around, frowning. "John? Jim?"

John was the side of the bed in a moment, taking Sherlock's other hand in his. "I'm here, love."

"So am I," Jim added, touching Sherlock's leg. "Gave us all a turn, Sherlock."

"...sorry." Sherlock nodded, swallowed and looked around again. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft rose slowly and moved to the foot of the bed. "I'm here, Sherlock."

"Are you...?"

"I'm fine. You stopped him."

Sherlock smiled slightly and closed his eyes again. "Good. That's good."

Xavier sat back and turned his chair around to face the rest of the room. "He'll sleep again. When he wakes up, he'll be back to normal." He looked at Mycroft, who paled slightly. Then he nodded.

"My?" Greg said, moving over to stand with Mycroft.

"I'll be sitting down with Professor Xavier, Greg," Mycroft said. "I've decided that I'm tired of being... less than I was."

"You aren't--!" Greg started to protest. He fell silent when Mycroft turned to face him, and Greg realized that the familiar, determined look on his face was an expression that had been absent for a very long time.

"I am," Mycroft said. "I have lost control. Of everything. I can at least take control of my... of my fears. Of myself. That, at least, is a starting point."

Greg nodded. "All right. Want me to come with you?"

Mycroft smiled. "As if I'd do this without you. Professor?"

"Someplace private." Xavier said. "And... now?"

"If you can spare us the time," Mycroft said.

Xavier nodded. "I'm not scheduled to leave until later tonight."

"If necessary, Sir, I volunteer to take you back to New York," Martin said. Livvy turned and stared at her husband.

"You'd go to _New York_?"

Martin smiled slightly. "I know I said I'd never go back. But this... we owe him."

"Oh. You have a point."

"Thank you both," Xavier said. "But there won't be a need. I came on a private plane."

"Ah." Martin nodded. "In that case, thank you, sir. Liv? Do you want to stay here, or should we go home and check on Vee?"

Livvy looked thoughtful. "As much as Mrs. Hudson loves her, Vee is a handful. We should go and take back the hellion."

"And when will I meet your daughter?" Xavier asked.

"When it's time for you to test her. And possibly, train her," Livvy answered. Xavier looked delighted.

"I look forward to it," he said, and turned his chair to go.

"Professor?"

Xavier turned towards John. "Yes?"

"Thank you, sir," John said. "He's going to want to know what you did."

"Once I assured him that no one was going to hurt him again, I softened the memories," Xavier answered. "Made them a bit more distant. He'll be able to delete them without much difficulty." He looked at Mycroft before continuing. "He asked me to close him off from his abilities, Mycroft."

"He didn't!"

"He did. And I refused." Xavier shifted, looking at the sleeping Sherlock. "I made him a counter offer. If he wishes me to teach him, I will. He'll never be a full telepath, but he should know how to defend himself."

"He did a fine job of doing so against March," Mycroft said, and Greg heard the umbrage in his voice.

"Down, My," he murmured. Xavier just smiled.

"He did. I don't dispute it. But he can do better. At the very least, I can teach him to cope somewhat better with the background noise."

"You can't make that call for him, My," Greg said softly. "Just.. let's focus on you, yeah?"

Mycroft scowled, then nodded. "You're right, Greg. All right. The Diogenes?"

"It has less steps than our house." Greg opened the door. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10

Greg liked the Diogenes club, liked it so much that it had surprised Mycroft the first time that he had brought Greg there. He enjoyed the quiet, being able to just sit and have a drink, and read the paper or a book without being disturbed. No crime, no one doing anything untowards to anyone else, no running around at all hours of the night. And, usually, no consulting detectives calling the rest of his team morons.

Although, granted, Sherlock had mellowed over the years. These days, when he called someone a moron, usually Greg was right there with him, but couldn't actually say it out loud. He grinned, and caught Mycroft looking at him. He waved, silently saying he'd explain later. Mycroft nodded and led the way towards his private rooms, where they could talk. Or anything else they might want to do.

Something else Greg liked about the Diogenes was just how well the rooms were sound-proofed, a relic of the early years of the club, Mycroft said. Greg wasn't entirely sure he believed his husband on that regard -- surely this dignified, posh establishment hadn't really been one of the early meeting places for the Hellfire Club. Or another meeting place for Burton's Cannibal Club. Or a secret homosexual brothel disguised as a gentleman's club. But still... the rooms were sound-proofed, and there were rumors about the cellars...

The door closed with a soft thump, and Mycroft locked it before turning around. Xavier was nodding.

"A lovely club, Mycroft. Thank you for bringing me."

"I'm very glad you approve, Professor."

"I can see how this would be restful. How long have the dampers been in place?"

Greg blinked. "Dampers?"

"Telepathic dampers. They're built into the walls of the rooms below. And I admit that I'm not certain as to when they were installed," Mycroft admitted. "But when there are so many men of power gathered in one place, it seems prudent."

"Yes, I agree," Xavier said. "Now, this would be best done while you were lying down--"

"There's a bedroom," Greg volunteered, and was rewarded with seeing Mycroft blush. Well, the last time they'd been here, they'd made use of the bedroom, too...

"Greg."

"Right. Sorry." Greg grinned, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Xavier just smiled. "Do I need to separate you two boys?" he asked, a note of teasing in his voice.

Greg looked at Mycroft and laughed. Boys? He was past fifty!

"All right, Greg. Shall we?" Mycroft held his hand out. Greg nodded and took it, running his thumb over Mycroft's knuckles. Hand-in-hand, they led the way into the bedroom.

At Xavier's direction, Mycroft stretched out on the bed. Then, to Greg's surprise, Xavier told him to lay down next to Mycroft.

"Hold his hand, if you like," Xavier said. "Be there with him."

"Am I going... are you going to be in my head, too?" Greg asked.

"Not this time," Xavier answered, at the same moment Mycroft said, "Yes, please."

"What?"

Mycroft turned his head and looked at Greg. "I was hoping you might... be with me. The entire time."

Greg met his eyes, then raised up on his elbows. "Can we do that?"

Xavier nodded. "If you wish."

"Then yeah, let's go." Greg lay back down and closed his eyes, feeling Mycroft's hand in his own.

Then, with no warning, he was elsewhere, surrounded by gray mist. And alone.

"My!" he shouted. "Professor!"

"We're here," Xavier said, walking out of the mist. Greg blinked.

"Nice trick."

Xavier looked down. "Yes, I can walk here. The mind is willing..."

Greg finished the quote, "But the body is weak. Where's My?"

"We're in your mind right now, Greg. We're finished."

"What?" Greg looked around. "But--"

"Mycroft asked that I not leave the memory of what was done to him in your mind," Xavier said. "I agreed with him. There's no reason to burden you with that trauma."

"Did either of you think to ask me if I wanted it?" Greg asked. Xavier looked amused.

"You agreed, or I'd never have done it."

"Right," Greg muttered. "And... I'm supposed to take your word for that?"

"We cannot lie mind to mind, Greg," Xavier said. "Now, Mycroft is asleep. I wanted to explain to you what was done and why you did not remember."

"Thanks." Greg looked around, then nodded. "I mean that. Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome, Greg. I'll see myself out. Goodnight."

The gray mist flowed up, and Xavier was gone.

#

Greg woke up curled around a sleeping Mycroft. He blinked, craning his neck to see the bedside clock. Six in the morning. Still time for sleep. He buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder, breathing in the scent of his husband -- wool and silk, the almond scent of his shaving soap, and the unmistakable scent of _Mycroft._

In his arms, Mycroft shifted, his breathing changing. Then he turned his head, smiling sleepily up at Greg.

"Good morning," he murmured.

Greg leaned down and kissed him. "Good morning. Feel better?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." Mycroft rolled to face Greg. "Thank you, for facing things with me."

"Yeah, well, thank you for not letting me remember." Greg pulled Mycroft to him. "It was that bad?"

"Yes."

"Then good thing you're done with it." Greg looked at Mycroft. "Right?"

"I still remember. But it's not as bad as it was. Not as paralyzing. I will be able to function now." Mycroft looked thoughtful, and it took a moment for Greg to realize why.

"You're going back?"

"Into government?" Mycroft asked. "I... yes. It's what I know. And if I can prevent something like this from happening again, then I will consider my life well-spent."

Greg nodded. "All right. What can I do to help?"

Mycroft smiled. "Just be with me. That's all I ask."

"You never had to ask." Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft again. "I'm always going to be here for you. Remember, I promised. So long as we both shall live. You're stuck with me."

Mycroft looked amused. "Well, I suppose I must find some way to soldier along, then."

"Yeah, I s'pose you must."

"I love you, Greg."

"Love you, too."


End file.
